Run Like Hell
by GiorgiaKerr
Summary: It had taken Deniz a long time to figure out what was wrong. A long time to figure out just what was missing, and now that he had, all he really wanted was to forget it again. - Deniz/Roman (Deniz/other)


Disclaimer: Totally mine.

Author's Notes: Because Deniz and Roman are so much more fun when they're all messed up. Set during the Dark Years, when Deniz is on party-drugs, and Roman's coming off as a total creep, and Annette is... Annette.

* * *

The thing that hurt so much about Deniz was that he was, in his own way, so very honest. His emotions were never questionable, and in a strange way, Roman found that hard to deal with.

It was never the feelings that were the problem. No, the problem came from the fact that Deniz was unfailingly incapable of putting them to words, of expressing the motives behind them. And it left Roman as frustrated as anything because he knew exactly what Deniz was feeling, and almost never knew why. It played so perfectly on those insecurities that he tried to hide, replayed that bloody broken record of It's my fault over and over and over in his head until he could hardly think of anything but what he'd done wrong.

Too attentive, not attentive enough, too pushy, too serious, too frivolous, not right, not _enough_.

But he'd wanted to be enough. So badly, he'd wanted to be enough. He'd wanted to be more than that – to be wanted, even needed, the same way he sometimes felt for Deniz. But he'd messed that up quite wonderfully. Annette had warned him once, right at the beginning, not to get too attached or too clingy, that no matter what he felt for Deniz, Deniz was still a kid. A kid who hardly knew who or what he was.

He'd frowned at her, snapped at her to have a bit more faith in Deniz, and in him, ignored her stroppily for a few minutes, and kissed Ingo on his way out the door. She hadn't brought it up again. He hadn't realised that she'd been right. She usually was.

Something else he'd realised later – far too much later – was that Deniz, despite all the deception, had never been good at lying, either. Shifting eyes, flickering nervous smiles, awkward kisses, even his voice. But Roman had never noticed it, had never wanted to notice it and had just believed that Deniz was ready for a kind of commitment that he so very much was not. He'd wanted to be ready – that Roman knew – the same way Roman had wanted to be enough. Deniz had tried to be mature – had had to be, really, because Roman didn't want to deal with nonsense. Didn't want to play childish games, and yet in that way, he'd almost instigated them; the dance of mutual denial they'd done for longer than they were actually together; truly together.

But Deniz seemed to have learned since that the best way to avoid telling the truth was to not say anything at all. Now, when he wasn't sure of an answer, when he didn't know what to say, or how to say it, he just stopped. Stopped and looked with those deceptively innocent eyes that a few months ago would have filled Roman with guilt and protectiveness. Would have made him drop everything, forget whatever the problem had been and kiss him until that innocence was well and truly lost again.

He couldn't do that anymore. Any of it. He had no right to feel protective, and he no longer wished to torture himself with guilt over something he knew wasn't his fault. That didn't always stop him. When he'd found out about the drugs, his first instinct had been to yell at Deniz, his second to yell at himself. It wasn't that he'd never taken drugs before, only that he knew the consequences, knew the possible consequences, and the protectiveness had kicked in of its own volition. It was the first time since they'd stopped dating that he realised the truth in Annette's words: Deniz was just a boy. A stupid, stupid kid who thought he was invincible and was so very, very not.

* * *

It had taken Deniz a long time to figure out what was wrong.

A long time to figure out just what was missing, and now that he had, all he really wanted was to forget it again. Because really, it had been far too long since he'd felt something even close to it, and not even the drugs got rid of wanting it again. Seemed to make it worse, sometimes, and he tried only once to find it again. Some guy at one of Kaja's parties grabbed him from behind while he was dancing, pressed himself into Deniz's back, and before he'd even considered shoving him off, he spun, attacking the guy's mouth with far more force than necessary, hands forgoing all thought of play or niceties as they grabbed his arse and tugged him forward, already half-hard.

He probably would have kept going, he thought with a twinge of disgust, if the guy hadn't pulled back to nuzzle Deniz's neck. Too affectionate, too intimate, and he shoved the guy off as violently as he'd just tugged him, hearing only a shouted insult before he was out the door. He ran until he could hardly breathe. Wasn't sure exactly where he was when he stopped, head still reeling from the kiss and the drugs and the run, and from the stupid, traitorous thoughts that just wouldn't leave him alone. He opened his eyes, vaguely registered that he was in an alleyway of some kind, and leaned heavily against the nearest wall.

He could still feel short, rough hair against his neck, and he lifted his right hand to scrub at it ineffectually. He had never minded when girls did that. Girls were naturally affectionate, treated him as both a plaything and something to be coddled. It had never bothered him, as long as he got what he wanted. For most of the girls he'd slept with, it had been no more than a front, anyway. He wasn't stupid enough to think that the girls loved him – wouldn't have slept with them if he were – but could feel that emotion was more intertwined with sex than it had ever been for him. Recently, anyway. But the emotion was never a driving force. They wanted a fuck, just like he did, and so he humoured them. Kissed them all once, afterwards, grinned, told them insincerely how beautiful they were. Most just rolled their eyes, experienced enough to ignore the post-sex flattery of a teenage boy. A few laughed, returned the sentiment, or tossed him their phone number unceremoniously as they left.

He let himself slide down the rough bricks, cold and painful through his tee-shirt, feeling far too good.

He missed the moments of sincerity he'd had with Roman. Well, sort of. The blankness that followed orgasm had been so profound with Roman; the first few seconds the only time Roman ever really shut up, and the only time Deniz had really just let himself be. The thoughts that bothered him all day could never form coherently – appearing, then quickly being drowned out by overexcited endorphins. Kind of like the drugs. Those times were the only times he ever let Roman hold him like he did, for that long: petting him, hands worrying his hair, his face, warm kisses pressed everywhere, words –_ always words_ – melting from Roman's mouth into his skin. He'd let Roman love him, even though he wasn't sure he could ever return the sentiment.

It wasn't that he didn't like it. It was that he did; that he liked the feeling of being loved but knew that he wasn't worth it, that at some point, just as it always had been, it would be taken away, given to someone more worthy. He didn't want to like it; didn't want to want it. Didn't want to love Roman back; didn't know how.

He smacked his head into the bricks behind him.

No, this was all wrong.

Deniz liked women, not men. Not Roman. Women turned him on. Fucking a woman didn't scare him; not anymore, not since Vanessa. It was simple, uncomplicated, black-and-white, white-and-black._ Normal_. He knew exactly how it worked, and it was rare, so rare, that anything was different.

With Roman, everything had been different. Fucking Roman... fucking Roman had never been just fucking. Partially because he'd really had no idea what he was doing, but also because even after they'd done something enough times that Deniz could probably have drawn a very detailed diagram, it was never the same. Seemed so twisted that he could sleep with ten women and it would always feel the same, but that he could sleep with one person ten times and it would always feel different.

Sex was the one part of their relationship that had worked. It was the one honest thing Deniz felt like he had ever really done. There was no lying in the way he responded to Roman's never-ending torrent words with a kiss; in the way he allowed Roman into him – tongue, fingers, cock; in the way he groaned and arched shamelessly under Roman's touch; in the way he loved so much to watch as he undid Roman completely.

He drew his knees tighter to his chest, realising suddenly that he was again half-hard, and nothing, nothing had been this fucking confusing in such a long time. He bit back what he thought might be a whine, and forced himself to stand up. Suddenly, all he really wanted was a bed; a bed with no one else in it; to be dead to the world in a pile of blankets and pillows.

He hated this feeling, coming down. Hated it because unlike alcohol, he couldn't just sleep it off. Most of the time he was awake for it and he could almost feel his head reassemble itself into some kind of order. And order that he'd tried so hard to get rid of. He couldn't escape it. He got high and lost control of his thoughts, then he came down and all that happened was that the thoughts came more slowly and more obviously; instead of flipping through and between emotions, they came clearer and more long-lived, if less concentrated.

He saw fuzzy lights moving to his right and quickly found a street – he was still in the inner-city, at least. Without really thinking about it, he hailed a cab, collapsing into it and mumbling Marian's address. It wasn't quite his home, but it was the next best thing. The quick procession of lights past the cab window made him horribly nauseous and he shut his eyes, head against the cool window, movement of the car calming him slightly.

Sometimes he wondered whether getting high was really worth it if it made coming down or being sober this much more unbearable, but then his father would look at him That Way, or he'd pass Roman at the Centre, or find himself staring at some guy in the locker room for just too long, and his decision was made for him. He couldn't stand how helpless he felt, realising that he couldn't even control his own thoughts and feelings, and that no matter what he did, he'd always, always break his own rules.

And feeling so fucking fragile and helpless was what really made that first hit so good – the small moment right at the beginning of a high when he was invincible. No thought, no confusion, no conflict or responsibility or guilt. Just a rush.

He hadn't realised the cab had stopped until he heard the driver call out. Handed him some money, didn't know or care how much, and got out, heading blindly towards the door of the building, vision still a little foggy as he barely managed to pull it open. He felt a drop of water on his hand and looked up. The sky was clearer than it had been in a week, blurred stars mocking him with their visibility. He put a hand to his face, felt moisture and growled, furious with himself. It took him half a dozen attempts to unlock the front door. Deniz kicked it shut, not caring if he woke his father. Marian could yell and punish all he wanted – it wasn't going to change anything. Couldn't change anything, because Deniz knew that no matter what he did, it was always wrong. He couldn't do right by his father, or by his mother, or by Roman. He couldn't even do right by himself.

He kicked off one shoe, feeling more like he wanted to kick himself, and let himself fall onto the unmade bed. He laid there, body at an odd angle across the mattress, one leg over the side of the bed, and closed his eyes. Closed his eyes and not unexpectedly, saw Roman, expression disapproving and angry, but caring all the same. Always bloody caring, and it was always this that undid him at the end of a high. Undid him to what end, it was anyone's guess. But each time he gave in – with tears, or anger, or jerking off, knowing he'd wake up the next morning with the excuse of the drugs – even though a part of him hated himself for it, he remembered what it was that had drawn him to Roman in the first place.

Tonight was different, though.

Tonight he finally realised that it wasn't familiarity that made him continue to fall back into Roman at all. It was rediscovery. And that... that just made everything that much more confusing.


End file.
